My cousin Israel and I have time to explore a nearby mound, within view of the grazing flock, after we grow tired of our toys and have eaten our fill of cheese and tortilla we packed earlier that morning before following the flock of goats and sheep out in to the valley. I am digging aimlessly when I come across an arrowhead. Israel also finds one, a different color, shape, and size. Our individual discoveries excite us and we start an earnest hunt for more on the mound. We are both on hands and knees with quick fingers, examining every rock and looking under every brush. When we are done, we have an old Folger’s can full of arrowheads of every shape and size we could have imagined. We carry the can back to our grandma Chloe, who at first chides us for disturbing a mound that we didn’t realize we were supposed to stay away from. She asks us to give her the can and she begins to lay out the arrowheads on her round kitchen table. We sit across from her on a metal crate that my grandfather Billy sits on and a mismatched chair that visitors use. We watch as her hands carefully place each arrowhead on the table and she begins to tell us about each one. This one is a female arrowhead…this one male…and so on and so forth. We sit for several minutes as she tells us about how we were so lucky find so many of them but that we must return them to the mound because it belongs to the people who left them behind. She also tells us not to disturb a site that others had sense enough to leave no matter how long ago its ground-buried travelers might have left their homes. She tells us that we mustn’t dig up sites like this again, that their absence signals an energy that we don’t want to invite in to the present." Read more here.